A HALO OF THORNS
by arsenous elation
Summary: (for both of their heads) In another world, she is a ballerina and he is a refugee. In another, their paths cross in the unlikeliest of circumstances; in another, they never meet at all. Loki/Natasha


A HALO / OF THORNS  
(for both of their heads)  
—

_Scenes from different realities.  
A Blackfrost fanfiction_

—

_1_ / the black widow

At first, there is fear.  
Slippery, serpentine, and cold. His hands curl around her slender neck, the malevolent intent apparent, thrumming, just beneath his skin.  
The Black Widow refuses to close her eyes, daring to look at the sneering face of Loki.

Natasha has no strength left, no more bullets. Her heart is empty and she lets Loki's rage fill her.

She waits for the gentlest pressure to snap her, break the bone, lance through flesh and blood.

_Peel back the skin, muscle and bone and you will find death. _This, Natasha knows _very _well.

She has come far enough to know, to act and not regret anything.

_Do you see?_

_We all wear our halo of thorns._

—

ii / _natalia romanova_

In another world, she is a ballerina and he is a refugee.

Tonight in the most venerable Bolshoi Theater, Natalia Romanova dances alone. It is a pas seul that she does best, the renowned ballet dancer with the piquant face and red hair. She cannot remember her character or her part but no one notices. Natalia does not give herself away. It is as easy as breathing, to assume the practiced movements, to clothe herself with fabricated truth, of someone else. And it delights her, how the audience is ensnared in her dance—because they can never tell where her part ends and her soul begins.

Her lies have no seams. Her limbs, a ballad of tragedy in pirouettes and glissades. At the end of the last act, Natalia's heart is already straining beneath the corseted cloth and the dances ends and she smiles, lungs screaming. The audience erupts with applause.

She accepts the flowers from the people, waves at them in gratitude, her smile never leaving her lips. In a whirl of light, kisses, roses, shouts, laughter, endless _you were beautif—_she finds herself alone in her dressing room.

Natalia stares at her reflection in the mirror, wipes away the make-up from her face. She scrubs her cheeks raw with a cloth, chafes away the paint, but the rouge of her lie never really goes away.

_You were marvelous, miss._ A voice speaks from the doorway. Natalia drops the cloth, plastering a smile for a greeting. She turns to face the stranger.

_Thank you—_

This is where their pas de deux begins.

The man, dressed meticulously in a suit, stands with arrogance, with supercilious nobility. His features are arresting; his ebony hair slicked back, his face a delicate marble and all refined elegance. His eyes are the elegy of lore, emerald and wicked, as if saying, _I know something about you that you do not know_.

_Thank you,_ Natalia repeats, tries to hold the man's unblinking gaze and smile at the same time.

He saunters towards the ballet dancer, wearing a smile of an imperceptible, caustic mockery.  
Natalia turns back to the mirror just as he stops to stand behind her. Quietly, under the mellow light of the room, they regard each other in the mirror's reflection.

He begins with: _You are always marvelous with your lies, Miss Romanova._

_Excuse me?_ A hint of surprised incredulity. Then, _I'm sorry, but have we met before?_

_In another place, perhaps. _He breaks into a wide grin, the green of his eyes glinting with what looks like delight. _Have you considered being an actress?_

_No, no I haven't. Dancing is all I know._  
(the lie rolls off her tongue like a familiar truth)

The man laughs a pleasing laugh, soft and dulcet. The ballerina feels dread trickle down her spine. Slowly, he raises his hand—for a moment Natalia stops breathing—  
and he reaches over her shoulder and picks up a strand of pearls from the jewel box perched on the table.

_I wonder, with all your simpering lies, do you know yourself still, if at all?_

Silence, paper-thin. Inflictive and unclean with introspection. In it, Natalia Romanova finds her practiced, impenetrable calm. There comes no panic, only uneasiness from the man's gaze. His scrutiny, his evident _amusement_ (on what, exactly?) feels as though an insect has gotten under her skin and she tries her hardest not to claw it out.

This is a man who recognizes a lie when he sees one; now there is no need to pretend. She finds herself saying, _You need to leave._

_It rings true does it not, _he grabs her neck roughly. Loops the pearl necklace around it, tightens his hold. Natalia watches his reflection with detachment as he leans down to her level and whispers in her ear, _Natalia_?

Natalia's pulse quickens.  
He pulls the pearls tighter…

Her calm cracks.  
…and tighter.

She tries not to choke, tries to hold as much breath as she can if, no before he—  
Suddenlyhe lets go of the pearl necklace. It rolls off her neck and falls to the floor with a sharp _clack. _Transfixed, she watches the man's eyes. Mischief swirls in the green like an oncoming storm. He smiles once more, mocking, mocking.

_It is because of you that I'm here, bound between worlds, _he finally says more to himself, half-disbelieving at his own words.

_Who are you?_ she asks, breathing hard. She tears her gaze from him and instead focuses on the blue of her own eyes in the mirror.

His mellifluous voice pierces the quiet, _No one._

She whips around and finds the man already walking out of the door.

_Oh, and your left foot needs practice, Natalia._

Then he is gone. Relief, quiet and demure, blooms in her chest and Natalia bends to pick up the fallen necklace—  
There on her table, she finds the strand of pearls [something nags at the back of her mind; didn't the pearls fall…?] wrapped decorously around a blood red flower.

Not quite a rose, but with twice as many thorns. By some morbid epiphany, Natasha keeps it. Tucks it away in the confines of her drawer—wears it too, thorns and all, for her _Giselle_.  
(a flower that never dies.)

—

_3 /_ parallel strangers

In another universe they are strangers, realms apart. She is the Black Widow, SHIELD spy, femme fatale, a woman without regrets.  
She accepts her brutal past and lives with it.

[forget the damn red in her ledger, might as well throw it to the fire]

And he is the god of Lies and Mischief, Jötunn, son of Laufey, the ignored second prince of Asgard.  
He knows of his lineage and he lets it destroy him quietly like a plaque.

[he seethes, swallows fire and brimstone]

Their paths are parallel lines, never to meet.

—

iv_ / Spring-Autumn concerto_

Here, they live in the same city, the same apartment building.

Loki Laufeyson is a painter. A free spirit. Hedonistic, music-loving and riveting with his warm green eyes. He lives on the fifth floor.

Natasha Romanoff is a struggling college student. Caffeine addict. Scientific, bookworm and _never-been-touched-but-so-what_. She stays on the third floor.

They have never met. That is, until one day, Loki accidentally splatters bright blue paint all over Natasha and her dissertation papers.

_Oh no,_ Natasha groans, wiping blue paint off her glasses to survey her wrecked research. _My paper!_

His mischievous smile disappearing, Loki darts forward to rescue the papers from the paint, wiping the blue sludge away with his hands. Which only worsened the whole thing.

Loki bites his lip and looks up to the livid expression of the woman before him. He offers a sheepish smile, raises his paint-imbued hand in an awkward apology. _Er, sorry?_

—

_5 / _Henry V

A small, unknown theatre in New York is where Natasha finds Loki.  
Here, he is an actor while she is the refugee.

Natasha stands in the darkened parterre, muscles taut. Watching the man who has sent her in this universe, a reality almost the same as her own. But not quite; although everything is just as it was, S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint, the Red Room… there is no Thor, no Loki, no Avengers. Natasha knows that however familiar this entire world is, it is not her home. Not her life.

And this, this is not the Loki she knows.

He stands alone under the theatre light, a handsome relief against the backdrop of darkness.

His emerald eyes are a study of bright and open skies; his hands, his countenance, of alabastrine perfection. Loki's voice calls out from the stage: deep and resonant, the smoothness of honey and silver. The Loki of this universe is a free_, _vibrant creature.

Her gut clenches, and Natasha wonders whether this spectacle is real or not. Because she finds no lie, no malice, in this Loki. Everything about him—thrumming from his fingers, from the smallest upwards curve of his mouth—exudes an air of _honesty._

It is a strange thing, to watch an enemy stripped of his pretenses.  
(to watch him act, but still be his own self.)

Natasha turns away, suddenly finding it difficult to watch him.

Their brief entr'acte unfolds at night, in the rain-slicked streets of New York.

From a distance she watches Loki as he exits the theater. He pulls his coat around him, hides his hands in the warmth of its folds, shoulders slouched from the wind. His gait is graceful—not severe, not regal—just careless, light. The wind ruffles the curls of his dark hair. Natasha searches for any hint, anything in his movements, that marks him to be the enemy she is familiar with.

There is none.

Almost-hesitant, she runs to catch up with him, feigning breathless innocence.

Slowing down behind Loki, she begins with:_ Excuse me?_

Loki stops, half-turns and looks at her.

Loki raises an eyebrow in askance. _Yes?_ there is no recognition in his voice. The green of his eyes against the harsh streetlight strikes her and Natasha catches her breath for real.  
(_you are not Loki of Asgard._)

_I … I admire your work, _she counteracts her surprise, wills her tongue to stutter, assumes the role of a diffident admirer. She looks at him through her lashes and simulates an exhale of uncertainty. _Especially in, in _Ivanov.

Loki regards her for a second before turning to face her fully. A small smile appears on his face, _Thank you, glad I did justice with Lvov._

No traces of a lie. Only an open kind of sincerity._  
(you can't be.)_

Drawing her mouth to smile with the appearance of sincerity, Natasha says, _Your performance was, and always is, marvelous._

It is then that Loki laughs, soft and infectious, an all too familiar glint of gold in his eyes: mischief. In a heartbeat, Natasha almost retracts as she realizes her mistake. The Loki of this world may not be god, but he may just be a liar-wolf in sheepskin? Probable.

_Actually, I was called off the thing._ he laughs his strangely pleasing laugh again; there is no slice of deceit in it, only humor and amusement.

In a millisecond, Natasha recomposes herself and the abashed-apologetic smile comes as easy as a blink.

_It's alright, _Loki genially smiles, _Now if you aren't planning to mug me or anything, I'll be on my way. _

_Wait…_ Natasha Romanoff calls, _I … I've got something for you._

_Oh, so you _are _going to mug me._

_No,_ she reaches inside her coat, aware that Loki is watching her, and pulls out a wrinkled folded paper rose.

Loki eyes her with thinly-veiled surprise. Then he says with a grin, _A rose instead of a gun?_

There is a small sting in her chest but Natasha ignores it. She pulls out a mumbling, _I haven't watched _Ivanov_, but you were great as prince Hal._  
And you play the part of princes well, she doesn't say. Natasha offers the folded rose, made from cheap paper, a façade of an admirer—for the double-purpose of having a chance to talk to him.

Loki takes it from her, his eyes never leaving her gaze. Natasha almost thinks that he has seen right through her. But instead, his mouth curves upward and he nods.

_Thank you._

Natasha turns and walks away, dropping her act. Somehow she filled with the inexplicable urge to look back._ No._ She pushes the image of him from her mind.

_A rose instead of a gun? _It seems that here, her past makes cruel jokes of her. Natasha grits her teeth in quiet envy.  
Loki is fortunate in this world.

—

_vi_ / impasse

In the reality where Loki holds the Black Widow by her neck, intending to break her, the improbable happens.

Natasha Romanoff uses Loki's rage against him and Loki retaliates with Natasha's lies. A battle between warriors whose weapons are deception and lies guarantees no real victor. An impasse is at hand.

Loki knows this but his arrogance never allows him to ever admit it. He fights (and she fights back), until there is nothing left and they both fall to the ground, bloody and torn.

So it is Natasha who asks, _Do you see?_

_See what? _Loki forces himself to ask; his throat is terribly dry. He stares at the Midgardian sky, saturnine with its gray clouds, and sighs at the little comfort the cold wind brings.

But instead, Natasha bursts into uncharacteristic laughter. She laughs so genuinely, without a sliver of imprudence that Loki glances at her in bewilderment. Her red hair is splayed across the grass, her eyes closed; a canvas of autumn against the bleak sky.

Then he, too, begins to laugh; finally comprehending. _We all wear our halo of thorns._For people like them the logic is quite simple: wear it or cut your head off.  
They both laugh until it starts to rain, until it soaks them to their very bones.

It is in this world that they save each other.

Fin.

* * *

An Author's Note You Need Not Read:

I don't know what happened. This was intended to be small scene between a ballerina and an Asgardian refugee, but nothing I ever write goes according to my plan. Eventually, plot bunnies invaded my mind and this is my way of getting rid of them. So this just sort of exploded on me.

You may note that parts _1 _and _vi_ occur in the same… er, arc/story line. Parts _ii _and _5 _occurs side-by-side (but not necessarily the same storyline), as both Loki and Natasha are both sent out of their universes. Whereas parts _3 _and _iv_ each stands alone.  
Originally, it ends with _Henry V_, but I wanted to show a reality where they _know of each other's pasts—and they accept, they look forward to the future together_, that sort of thing. I know, I know, it fucked everything up.

Thank you for reading!

**TRIVIA**:  
The undying flower that Loki has given to Natalia in part _ii _is the amaranth, an imaginary flower that is said to never fade.  
Henry V and Ivanov refer to the TV movie and play that Tom Hiddleston took part in. In Ivanov, Hiddles really plays Lvov.

The terms used:  
pas seul - a solo dance or dance figure  
pas de deux - a dance for two people (usually a ballerina and a danseur noble; now imagine Loki as ballet dancer. Dear Hiddles, the leotards.)  
pirouette - a rapid spin of the body (especially on the toes as in ballet)  
glissades - a gliding or sliding step in ballet  
entr'acte - the interlude between two acts of a play


End file.
